Everyone's Crazy Under A Lonely Moon
by ChaosChild92
Summary: A twisted look at the relationship between the two oldest Weasley brothers before and after Bill's injuries.Written for this prompt over at the now deceased kink meme. This is SLASH. If that's not your cup of tea I'm not forcing you to drink it.


**Title: **Everyone's Crazy Under A Lonely Moon  
**Author: **Chaos  
**Beta: **Currently being beta'ed by the amazing bowie_glam, but that might take a while so I thought I'd post in the meantime.  
**Pairings**: Bill/Charlie, reference to Bill/Fleur  
**Warnings: **Angst, alcohol consumption, Weasley-cest.  
**Ratings: **R  
**Spoiler Warnings: **Battle of Hogwarts, specifically Bill's injuries.  
**Disclaimer****: **They are not mine. I lay no claim. I only own the twisted muses who inspired this. Even the title/cut lyrics are not mine. They belong to the lovely Cat Empire.

**Summary:** A twisted look at the relationship between the two oldest Weasley brothers before and after Bill's for a prompt over at the now deceased kink meme.

**Author's Note: **This is another of my backlog of things I was writing that I'm fishing out and finishing off. Enjoy!

* * *

Bill shows up late. Like he has every month. He's practically growling when Charlie answers the door. Takes one look at him before swearing half-heartedly and stepping aside to let him in.

"You've left it too long." The remark is non-committal because he's not going to turn Bill away and they both know it. So Bill just snaps at him as he passes by, actually snaps his teeth together, and that's the only reply Charlie's going to get.

There's a bottle of whiskey open on the table. Charlie sips from his glass, watching as Bill takes a long swallow, apparently ignoring the burn. His lips break free of the neck with an obscene sound and his eyes fix on his brother. Charlie lets the silence stretch until he can't take it anymore and the conversation snaps right back to where it was.

"Why do you do this?" He asks idly, running one finger around the top of the glass, collecting the moisture from his lips and any whiskey left behind. Bill's eyes are caught by the movement, following it almost hungrily as his brother continues. "If you'd come earlier…" He trails off, because he's not really angry. Doesn't really know what he is. But Bill's a bit calmer with enough alcohol coursing through his system to subdue the tensions running high, and so now he gets an actual reply.

"Because." Bill doesn't sound angry anymore either. More resigned than anything. "I love her." Charlie sighs and stares hard at his whiskey before taking another sip.

"Yeah." He says at length, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table while he presses his forehead against his glass. Rolls it slowly across the skin where he can feel the pressure building. Letting the condensation mix with anticipatory sweat.

When he looks up again Bill is much closer, right inside his personal space. It's like there are a few moments missing form his memory. Like Bill moved without him being there. Rough fingers tug the glass from his grip and alcohol laden breath mixes with his own slightly tipsy exhalations.

"Hey." A hand comes up in his peripheral vision and for a moment he leans ever so slightly forward, closing his eyes. But Bill's calloused fingers don't reach his face. Instead they come to rest on the delicate skin of his neck and Charlie opens his eyes again, swallowing to feel the lightest pressure against his frantic heartbeat. "I love you too."

He knows that it's true. Knows that Bill really does love him. Just not in the way that he loves Fleur. He loves Fleur because he wants to. Wants to look after her. With her he's all tenderness and light. He loves Charlie because he has to. Because he needs him. He can feel that need in every beat of his heart, in the blood passing under Bill's fingers. Because the need in Bill calls to something in Charlie. Because Charlie needs him too.

He needs to remember when they were kids together, hiding in the long grass behind the shed. Back when things were simple. He needs to remember fumbling touches as Bill slid his hands under Charlie's robes, pressing fervent kisses into his pliant little brother and breathing hot promises across his skin. _You'll like it, I swear. It won't hurt, I won't let it. Just let me…_Needs to remember laughter turning into moans and smiling kisses against his skin.

He needs to know that he's a part of Bill's life. That he's important. And Bill knows that too. It's knowing how much Charlie needs him that forces Bill to avoid his house like the plague. It's also what keeps him coming back every month. Even when he hates himself for it. In spite of the disgust Charlie can see in his eyes. Disgust for himself and for what he's done to his brother. What he does to his brother. And disgust for Charlie, for letting him do it.

But right now that disgust is hidden, completely subsumed by need and lust and alcohol. It feels like seconds pass between Bill moving forward, pressing gentle kisses and mutterings into the skin where his hand was resting, to when he surges, the animal in him taking over. It is only seconds before Bill has him pressed up against the wall, chair on the ground and his teeth scraping along the veins in Charlie's neck. And as always the younger Weasley gives in, going limp and letting his head drop back as his brother's canines scrape almost painfully along the skin, trailing down as Bill claws furiously at his shirt, ripping it aside and dragging his mouth, all teeth and saliva and laving tongue, down and down. Charlie lets his fingers curl and tug and pull in Bill's hair even though all it gets him is a series of snarls and a low, rumbling growl.

Apparently satisfied with Charlie's submission Bill pulls him sharply away from the wall, bringing his younger brother crashing down on top of him. He barely has a moment to catch his breath before Bill rolls them over, forcing him flat onto the floor. Bill ducks his head, stretching up to where one powerful fist is pining Charlie's hand, lapping at the pulse in his wrist then following it up the inside of his arm as Charlie moans and struggles to breathe. When Bill has finally satisfied himself that there won't be any fight from his prey he fumbles at the buttons on Charlie's jeans. They're old and ratty and not something he wears about anymore because none of his clothes are in any fit state after a few of Bill's episodes but he has to wear something. He has to pretend this isn't just about his body. Feels too much like some kind of sacrifice otherwise. He's prepared himself too, muttering spells in the peace of his little apartment and feeling dirty just for thinking about why he's doing it. He knows Bill won't think to take the time though. Not like when they were younger. Well Bill could spend hours patiently toying with his brother from the inside out. Seeing what would make him squirm like he was ticklish and what reduced him to incoherent moans.

Now Bill tears at his clothes and forces his way in with a sound approximating a howl. His fingernails, longer and sharper on nights like this, claw at Charlie's back. He can feel the skin tearing under the onslaught but he doesn't fight it. Doesn't even try to make Bill stop. Instead, he presses back into that grip, feels the nails digging in deeper until there's blood leaking out and around them and forming little rivulets over his skin. Because this is the closest he's going to get to an embrace. This parody that's left scars, fresh and raw, crisscrossing the muscles on his shoulders while he lies there, splayed on the floor as Bill thrusts wildly into him. And he's aroused by this. By the friction and desperation of it and by the memories that it evokes. Memories of things that are wrong now but were right at the time. Things remembered in this grotesque pantomime of what once was. And he's disgusted with himself. For the memories and for loving this animal that his brother becomes, because the animal still needs him. He's disgusted and impossibly desperate.

The abstract part of him, the part that feels the disgust keenly, even now, is aware that he's moaning. Making short, breathy noises inbetween. It can feel the bone of his skull as it rolls across the cheap linoleum, cushioned by hair that's already matted and sweaty and picking up whatever trash is on the floor. Can feel Bill nuzzling along his throat, making strange, animal snuffling sounds as he laps at the salty skin. Then agony flaring up as he bites down. Not like anyone else Charlie has ever been with, where teasing bites were all part of the game. Bill bites like he means to tear Charlie's throat out, teeth sinking in deep enough to draw blood as he worries the skin back and forth.

He can feel that part of him being drawn in, assaulted by the sensations as he drifts away. Shifting from one unstable feeling to another like a patchwork of impressions. His back slipping against the floor, lubricated by sweat and blood. Bill's claws holding his shoulders up, chest pressed flush against his brother's feverish skin wile his head rests limply on the ground and his neck burns. Bill inside him, Bill on top of him. Bill, with his brother's blood on his teeth and a dark look in his eye. Awash in this sea of feelings Charlie dreams of other things, almost like he's caught up in some spell or delusion as he slips easily from one thought to another. From dream to memory to fantasy and back again.

He dreams that the animal on top of him isn't really Bill. Dreams that the pain and hatred and fear that this creature inspires aren't connected to his big brother. Who he adores. Who he would do anything for. Who he will do anything for. He dreams that the thing hurting him isn't someone he loves but an enemy. That Bill, who he loves, will save him. That there's the monster inside just waiting to be conquered by the man he knows. He dreams that the man loves him. Like the boy once did.

He remembers the secrets of his childhood. Remembers slipping out of bed once his parents lights went out and tiptoeing over to Bill. Remembers Bill throwing back the covers and wriggling over, knowing that his brother wouldn't sleep well alone. He remembers years later, stripping off under his own covers than joining Bill, shivering in the cold air of their bedroom. Remembers Bill's gentle whispers as he stroked him softly and slid fingers inside his brother, kissing him until he felt touched everywhere, like every part of him existed only in contact with Bill's skin.

He fantasizes about a place where he and Bill are together. Properly together. No whispering after midnight or stolen kisses behind the tapestries at Hogwarts. No illicit, violent meetings on the night of the full moon. No growing distance as realisations and societal norms come crashing down on them. Somewhere it could be just the two of them. Happy and together without any of the complications that have been thrust upon them. Or the ones that were always there.

When he finally comes back to himself he's in his own bed and he can hear birds outside the stillness of the flat. There are bandages over the injures he's received, spotted with blood, and he can still feel the pull of the wounds. An awareness that grows more real as he slides gingerly out of bed and limps into the bathroom.

The first time, Bill stayed. Charlie was barely conscious, battered and bruised, but he remembers his brother crying. Hot tears falling onto his face and stinging the cuts there. He remembers reaching out, trying to make Bill understand.

When he woke up a day had passed and he couldn't feel anything. The cuts and bruises and the pain inside were all gone. There was nothing to show for the encounter but the bitter recrimination in Bill's eyes and the numbness. He had cried and shouted and raged and Bill had looked taken aback by the fury. He had apologised for what he had done, now and in the past, and that had broken Charlie because that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Bill begging to come back, not swearing to stay away.

So he told Bill that he'd be waiting the next time he needed him and gave him one condition. Told him that Fleur would never understand. Told him to promise never to heal him again. And Bill had grown angry. Had sworn there would never be a need.

He'd left and Charlie had waited. They didn't speak for a month and Bill had come back on the night of the full moon, surly and furious. And it had hurt but the next morning Charlie had woken up to find himself in his own bed, tended to but not healed, and Bill gone.

So now he finishes his examination in the bathroom mirror and limps into the shower. Standing under the spray, trying not cry and not entirely sure why he wants to. Bill needs him. He has what he wants.


End file.
